


Old Ghosts

by erelis



Series: Seasonal Shorts [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Halloween, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 13:22:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12582828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erelis/pseuds/erelis
Summary: It's close to midnightand something evil's lurkin' in the darkUnder the moonlightyou see a sight that almost stops your heartOn the night when the dead are said to walk the earth, Reaper visits the cemetery. It doesn't go as planned.





	Old Ghosts

 

"Always figured it was you."

The impulse to snatch his hand back to his side and disappear is so strong that he can feel himself start to dissolve at the edges, but he's stronger than instinct. Stronger and infinitely more stubborn. He reels himself back in, thankful for the darkness that shrouds the cemetery and conceals from prying eyes the slight wisp of smoke curling off the nape of his neck. 

Slowly, he lowers his hand, as casually as he would have done if he were as alone as he'd originally believed himself to be. "Still don't have any friends?" he returns over his shoulder, the harshness of his voice making the sarcasm stronger than he intends it.  

There's no note of affront in Jack's gruff voice. "No one else was there the day I died."

Reaper's chuckle is dark and guttural as he turns to face him. The mask makes facial expressions meaningless. To compensate for that, he cants his head sideways and backward: the closest approximation to the same kind of challenge a raised eyebrow would issue. "You know the meaning of flowers now, too?" 

The gloom between two tall headstones shifts seconds before the oh-so-familiar figure of Jack Morrison steps into view. With the moon merely a sliver of silver in the sky and the city too far away to provide much ambient light, he seems more shadow than substance. 

"Quarters start showing up on your headstone, you want to find out why," Jack says and the darkness around him ripples as he shrugs one shoulder, like he and it are one and the same. 

Yet Reaper _is_ shadow now and his eyesight is not hampered by the dimness of the stars. A dark overcoat falls to Jack's ankles, obscuring much of his clothing, but it's clear that he isn't wearing the uniform of the ridiculous persona he's adopted since the disaster in Switzerland. Nothing obscures his eyes. They are fixed on Reaper, with all the laser focus Jack refused to spare him when it actually mattered, and in them he sees things that will not aid either of them this late in the game. 

A sneer thins his lips back from his teeth and cuts into his tone. "You're getting sentimental in your old age." 

Sentimental and foolish. So fucking foolish. No weapon on Earth will save him when Reaper finally chooses to pull his still-beating heart from his chest, yet to come unarmed to face his death only serves to tempt it. And Jack _is_ unarmed. He senses it in the way the shadows curl around Jack's body, sees it in the way he carries himself. All cocky confidence and nothing more than fragile flesh and bone to back it up. So familiar. And so utterly infuriating.  

In the dim starlight, Jack's scars are nearly paler than his hair. The left corner of his mouth twitches in one of those dry, barely there half-smiles that threaten to resurrect a host of unwanted memories. "I'm not the one leaving tokens on a dead man's grave."

He snorts in disdain. "Never thought you were dead." 

"So what's the point?" Jack challenges, because he always challenges everything when it doesn't matter. 

And this _doesn't_ matter. He smiles behind the mask, knowing Jack will be able to hear it in his voice. "Maybe there isn't one."

"With you?" It's Jack's turn to snort and he does it with gusto, sounding thoroughly amused. "Doubt it."

It's a trap, though an inexpertly placed one. Reaper refuses to spring it and stands there silently, regarding him with thinly veiled contempt as the late October wind idly blows through the headstones. There are dead leaves caught in its current. They swirl in the eddies, rustling across the ground and dancing around his ankles. One gets stuck on the armor plating of his boot. He makes no motion to dislodge it.

Jack has always been a stubborn fool and he has only grown more so with age. He will not walk away from this, Reaper knows. He thinks that he's right, refuses to believe in the possibility that he's grossly misjudged the situation. Even with a lifetime of mistakes etched indelibly in his skin and his greatest standing before him in the raiment of war and death, he still can't countenance failure. That resistance to the truth is there in the solid way Jack has planted his feet, like he's squaring himself for a fight, readying to take a blow and remain immovable despite it. 

But Reaper's reasons are his own. Jack lost his right to be privy to them long before the bombs went off, his silence and neglect when it mattered far more damaging than fire and shrapnel could ever be. He isn't telling him. Jack can stand here staring at him and waiting until the dawn comes, for all he cares. 

Maybe Jack realizes that. Or maybe he's even more of an idiot than Reaper thinks he is, because he tries switching tacks. "I've been looking for you."

It isn't persuasive _at all_. Reaper nearly laughs in his face. "I know," he drawls instead, letting the word drop so far down in his vocal register that it's little more than a growl. 

Jack doesn't take the hint. "Tracked you all over the world." 

Like Reaper's a clueless idiot. Like Jack doesn't leave glaringly obvious signs of his mediocre tracking skills all over every location he visits. Like there's a possibility that Jack can even find him on his own, without Reaper _letting_ him do it. Jack may have been the military's favorite and Overwatch's darling, but there's only ever been one true strategist among them. 

And he doesn't have the patience for this. If he doesn't rein Jack in, they're going to be at this all night. Little digs. Clumsy attempts at subtlety. Dancing round and round the bush until Jack either comes out with it or Reaper leaves in annoyed disgust. He's tempted to leave now. He can feel the impatience running like an electric current along his spine, itching to melt into the darkness and leave the bastard standing here alone. 

He doesn't do it.

That's the problem with Jack. That's why Reaper doesn't often let him get this close in their game of cat and mouse. Apart, they're unstoppable forces of nature. Together, they're a binary star incapable of escaping each other's orbit. Jack knows it too, but unlike Reaper, he hasn't the sense to stay the fuck away. 

There's nothing for it except to cut through the bullshit and bring the confrontation to its inevitable end. Reaper tips his head back, knowing that even if Jack can't _see_ him looking down his nose at him, he'll recognize the posture for the challenge that it is.

"You gonna keep stating the obvious, Jack?" he sneers at him, daring him to say the hollow words that are probably trying to claw their way out of Jack's throat.  

Jack's eyes, still so startlingly blue after all these decades, narrow. Understanding. Acceptance. Stubbornness. There are so many ways to read that expression, but the meaning remains the same. 

Softly, deliberately, he volleys it back. "Why are you here, Gabe?"

 _Too late. Too fucking late. You can't stop this now._ Reaper laughs, the sound as empty as Jack's platitude. "It's All Hallow's Eve." He throws his arms wide, spreading his steel-tipped fingers. "This night belongs to the dead." 

Clicking his tongue, Jack shakes his head. "You're always so goddamn dramatic."

He isn't wrong. Reaper doesn't try to correct him. "And you're still a fool." He lowers his arms, flicking a wrist in Jack's direction. "Should've brought a gun."

"Didn't come here for a fight," Jack returns. 

A scoff is all the dignifying of _that_ idiotic statement he can manage. Anything else is too ridiculous and far more acknowledgement than it warrants.

Jack doesn't seem bothered by it. But then again, he never seems bothered by anything Reaper does. A sharply cutting comment. A bullet in the back. None of it fazes him. None of it is enough to run him off or make him stop chasing ghosts. 

"Dead walk tonight, right?" He rolls his shoulders, shrugging as nonchalantly as if he's about to suggest they go get a coffee, then tosses his head. "So walk with me."

For a rare, unguarded moment, Reaper stares at him, nonplussed. "What?" 

Sounding much too reasonable, he continues. "We can go back to killing each other tomorrow, if that's really what you want." 

The misstep strips away the ludicrous offer's bewilderment. "You have no idea what I want," Reaper snarls back. 

Again, Jack shrugs. "Would if you told me." It's a casual remark; one that he must know will provoke the fight he claims not to want, because he doesn't allow it to linger. "C'mon, Gabe. Once around the perimeter." 

There's been too much blood under the bridge for Reaper to get any gratification out of hearing the great Jack Morrison try to wheedle his way into getting what he wants. It's irritating more than anything else. Grating.

 _It would be so easy to shoot you now. No one to hear it. No one to see you fall. Killed at your own grave and no one would know what happened._ And it would be exactly what Jack deserved. 

For coming here unarmed, knowing what he would find and being stupid enough to think that he could resurrect the dead with shallow words and false promises. For refusing to give up now that he has nothing left, after he'd been so quick to throw in the towel back when they'd had everything to lose. For leaving him to burn in Switzerland. For turning a blind eye and a deaf ear on everything he'd been too arrogant and bullheaded to believe. 

Reaper can see the dull gleam of gunmetal in his mind's eye. He can hear the cracking boom of every bullet striking true. The sharp scent of blood teases at his senses as terrible freedom beckons him to follow through on his threats _just this once_.

Vengeance doesn't come. It's hovering there within reach, but Reaper doesn't move to take it. He only offers a dry, rather dubious, "It's a big cemetery, Jack."

And damn him, but doesn't Jack's mouth twitch in a there-and-gone smile. "I'll try not to throttle you."

At a leisurely pace, it will take them upwards of three hours to complete a circuit of the cemetery if they stick to the outermost drives. Should they start zigzagging through the interior, they'll be at it even longer. It doesn't take what remains of the former commander of Blackwatch to know that Jack's stalling for time, trying to drag the encounter out far beyond its natural conclusion. He doesn’t have to guess at why.

That's the rub. That's what galls him even as he finds himself drifting closer, involuntarily reeled in by something so much older and stronger than hate or bitterness. He can deny it all he wants. And he does, every waking second of his afterlife, with every action, every word, every step he takes in time with Talon's tune. But deep, _deep_ down, beyond the layers of lies and half-truths he tells himself, he knows what still binds them together.

If Jack's surprised that he so grudgingly agrees, he doesn't show it. He doesn't remark on it either, which is for the best if this nonsensical walk is truly what he wants to achieve. One word of gloating triumph, just the slightest hint of needling satisfaction, and Reaper will steal his victory and disappear. Perhaps he knows that, because all he does is turn, casually like this is nothing more than a well-established evening routine, and moves away from his grave.

Like a malevolent shadow, Reaper follows. Although drying and dead leaves litter the brittle grass, his footsteps make no sound. Jack doesn't turn to make sure that he's there and Reaper doesn't hasten his pace to walk at his side. Neither speaks as carefully tended lawn gives way to smooth macadam pathway. What Jack's thinking, Reaper doesn't know and more importantly, doesn't care to know. His own thoughts remain carefully, purposefully blank.

Stare too long into _this_ abyss and what will look back at him isn't anything he wants to see.

It's only when they're halfway down Sheridan Drive that Jack finally breaks the uneasy silence.

"Remember the first time we came here?" he asks, voice no louder than a casual conversational level despite Reaper being a few paces behind him. 

All too clearly, the memories rise to the forefront of his mind. He considers banishing them immediately, knowing nothing useful will come of reminiscing about something well and truly dead, but the spirit of the evening persuades him to let them linger.

Just a few months out of the program, they'd made the trip to pay their respects to all the soldiers who'd gone before them. Jack had been full of patriotic fervor and, as Gabriel had been quick to tease him, wide-eyed, country-bumpkin wonder. The tour of the cemetery itself had been a somber event, but afterward, they'd taken the Metro into the city to grab a bite to eat. Dinner quickly became more than a few beers, newly minted super soldier constitution making it an interesting competition to see who could get drunk first, and when they'd finally made their way back to their room, the furniture had suffered a few regrettable and wholly unintended casualties to their amorous enthusiasm. 

The words pass through his lips as slowly as a tendril of smoke rises from his shoulder. "You were disappointed the Eternal Flame wasn't bigger."

A low chuckle filters back to him. "Can you blame me?"

Reaper's snort contains a wealth of judgment. Yes, he can. Indiana isn't so far removed from civilization that growing up there excuses Jack's younger self acting like a gape-jawed yokel.

After that, things change. It's subtle at first, the way everything has always been between them, but eventually not even Reaper can deny that the fraught tension has given way to a mildly companionable familiarity. Just like he can't pretend that somewhere between Jackson Circle and Patton Drive, he stops walking behind Jack and falls into step beside him.

They don't touch. There's a careful distance between their shoulders and swinging hands, a fragile no man's land upon which an accidental trespass might renew the war, but they're close enough that a low murmur on either side would be audible to the other. This too is familiar, muscle memory from a time when professionalism mandated their behavior. When Jack again utters that understated chuckle that has come to replace the boisterous laughter of his younger days, Reaper feels the inexorable, ever-present pull between them grow stronger.

Another wisp of smoke curls invisibly into the night sky.

Jack does most of the talking. He indicates the graves of comrades-in-arms, slain by disease and happenstance just as often as omnics and war, and shares his memories of those they knew. Reaper only occasionally offers one of his own, though he's quick to point out inaccuracies in Jack's recollection. His voice never quite loses its sarcastic edge, but it becomes blunted with extended use.

He knows what Jack’s doing, knows that he’s trying to wear him down with nostalgia and memories. It won’t work. Words can’t resurrect the dead. But he doesn’t put a stop to it. He doesn’t call him on his graceless manipulations. He tells himself he doesn't know why he lets it continue and pretends that he doesn't know he's lying.

Time passes so slowly that it almost feels like it's standing still. The moon barely seems to move across the sky. Reaper watches it more than he doesn't, looking at it instead of the monuments and graves they pass or the man who walks at his side. It's the one thing that never changes, a constant presence in a world of chaos and loss. It will be there long after Jack's bones turn to dust, as eternal and isolated as he has become. 

"It's not real, you know," he hears himself saying, the broken distortion of his once smooth voice still alien and discordant to his ears. It probably always will be.

Glancing sideways, he warily eyes Jack's profile, waiting for the response to his unintended confession. But Jack neither asks for clarification to the non sequitur nor smugly responds that he already knows this. Because if he looked into possible reasons for the coins that have been mysteriously showing up on top of his headstone every year, then of course he knows that the reality isn't quite as dramatic as the legend. The information is extraordinarily easy to find.

As easy, perhaps, as it is for Reaper to read the meaning behind the eyebrow that Jack cocks. Not a _what are you talking about?_ but a _why are you telling me this now?_

Reaper shrugs, not the least bit interested in examining the answer to that. "It's just a legend," he says instead, hoping to drive the point home. "Doesn't actually mean anything."

It could have been anything. A quarter. A penny. An unremarkable stone. An empty bullet casing. A notch etched into the edge of the granite. Those who propagated the myth sought order and universal meaning where there’d never been any. The token has only ever meant what the one who leaves it intends.

"You don't believe that," Jack murmurs, and Reaper knows that it's a conscious decision to keep his low tone that neutral. Accusations will only provoke a fight, but Gabriel Reyes had never backed down from a challenge and neither one of them has forgotten that.

From the corner of his eye, Reaper can see a tendril of smoke winding its way out from under the confines of his hood. "No," he replies grudgingly, wanting to lie and yet finding himself unable to do it. "I don't."

He waits for it. The assertions, the declarations, the arguments, the pleas: everything he doesn't want to hear and knows that Jack is practically bursting to unload on him. But Jack doesn't say anything. He just looks at him for a few seconds, never slowing his pace, and finally, after a moment that stretches on too long, nods. He turns back to the path in front of them like nothing's happened, like nothing has changed between them. 

It hasn't changed. It _can't_ change. There's no turning back time. There's no erasing what's been done. The lies, the betrayal, the silence. The constant burning ache that's become Reaper's whole world. 

They don't speak much after that. Reaper waits for it, tense in a way he hasn't been in a _long_ fucking time, but Jack just strolls along at his side, relaxed and seemingly oblivious. Reaper doesn't buy it. Jack isn't that naive anymore. He can't be.

 _Can't be that easy,_ he thinks. _You want more than I've given you. I know you do._ But Jack doesn't press and Reaper, though he wants to pick at it until they're shouting at each other, doesn't force him to do it. 

By infinitesimal increments, the sky begins to lighten. The night's drawing to a close. Before too long, the road takes on the serpentine twists of Sherman Drive. It's been just a few hours, but it feels like they're been walking forever. Reaper's boots hit the pavement like they're made of lead. A bleak part of him finds it darkly amusing to carry weight now, when he's little more than smoke and memory. _Pity Jack's too dense to recognize the irony._

One of them has to say it and Reaper knows that this is the only call that Jack will never make. He hasn't ever done it before, and if he can't do it in this new, conflict-ridden world they've built, he isn't going to be able to do it. Vindictive cruelty tempts Reaper to do it anyway, wait him out and force him to say the words, but he's running out of time for that. Spirits walk the earth only once a year. And dawn is coming quickly. 

As they approach the intersection near the Tanner Amphitheater, the wisteria covered trellises making its dark silhouette uneven, Reaper casts a sideways glance at Jack. He doesn't have to speak. The atmosphere changes instantly, suddenly electrified with tension and desperation. Jack knows. However, the blackened, damaged part of Reaper relishes in the unhappiness it's going to cause him too much to stay quiet.

"Walk's over, Jack."

Jack hasn't tried to touch him all night, but he does it now, reaching out and catching Reaper's forearm in a vice-like grip that's equal parts enhanced strength and stubborn determination. "Gabriel, just—"

It would be easy to let him sway him like this. Too easy. Dangerously easy. And Reaper can't afford to be swayed now. If he is, then it's all—everything he's lost, every torturous second of agony—been for nothing. And it can't be for nothing. 

"Gabriel's dead, Jack," he tells him firmly, interrupting the plea before it can gain too much irresistible traction. _I have to live with it. So you do._ " _That's_ the point."

He lets himself go then, his body disintegrating into smoke as Jack tries futilely to hang onto him. For an instant, Reaper lingers, letting the darkness swirl around him like one of those dead leaves caught in a vortex. And then he's gone, disappearing into the shadows with nothing but a single shiny quarter on a cracked slab of marble and the echo of his harsh voice all the proof Jack will have that he's been there at all. 

But Jack's an obstinate man. If he thinks about it, he'll figure it out. And Reaper knows he won't stop thinking about it.

_See you next year, Jack._


End file.
